


Persona

by misbegotten



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misbegotten/pseuds/misbegotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is who they are off the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Persona

This is who they are off the job.

Ariadne burrows into the covers, personally offended by the dim light of dawn even though she insists on sleeping with the curtains open. She mews pitifully, pulling the pillow over her head.

Arthur, who has been up for hours, takes this as his signal to return to bed. He warms his toes on the backs of her thighs and negotiates the heavy comforter to wrap his arms around her, burying his nose in the back of her neck. His breath, hot on her skin, inflames her. Ignoring the fact that he's already brushed his teeth and she's got morning breath, she reaches back to kiss him.

His fingers trace the outline of her breasts, skirt down the line of her ribs, come to rest in the hollow of her hips as he turns her to him. His cock presses insistently, already slick with pre-come, and her legs fall open naturally to allow him access. He fingers her gently, prepping her, then enters her with a hiss as he settles into an easy rhythm. He works her clit with his thumb, drawing a pleased noise from her, and she comes, stuttering around him, before he follows with a groan.

The shower, with its uneven water pressure, scatters pins and needles across her skin. Arthur soaps her back, eliciting a groan of pleasure as his fingernails scritch back and forth. Dressing is casual, jeans and a t-shirt for her, jeans and a polo for him, and she pauses to admire the outline of his ass through the denim.

Breakfast is croissants and cafe au lait, and scrambled eggs peppered with black bits where Ariadne has burned them. Arthur eats this without complaint. He has the international edition of the New York Times spread across his lap; Ariadne concentrates on the way his lithe fingers turn each page while she pretends to read the latest architectural journal.

A chessboard lays on the table at the end of the couch, and as she passes she moves a rook. Checkmate in three moves.

They go to the open air market, judiciously choosing between ripe tomatoes and plush peaches. Arthur tries to wipe peach juice from her chin with his handkerchief, as she dances away and swipes the sweet liquid with the back of her hand. Later they hold hands and he doesn't complain about the stickiness, just licks his fingers suggestively.

In the evening, Arthur's king has moved closer to his inevitable demise while a jazz record plays staccato in the background. Ariadne chops vegetables for a ratatouille niçoise, hips swaying to the beat, and Arthur washes dishes as she dirties them.

After dinner, Ariadne lays with her feet in Arthur's lap and reads for lecture, while Arthur talks in low tones on the phone with Eames about a possible job. She realizes his conversation is over when he takes her foot in his hand and rubs gently, fingers tracing the ball of her foot, the line of her arch, and back down again. She stretches her feet appreciatively, and then hitches a breath as his hand wanders up her leg, caressing her knee absently. She has a thing about her knees, damn him, and after being teased for what seems _forever_ \-- a minute or two, at least -- she crawls forward and kisses him thoroughly.

Sex on the couch is awkward and laughable, a tangle of limbs and clothing, teetering precariously on the slick leather cushions as Arthur goes down on her, working her ruthlessly with his tongue. He pushes her legs over his shoulders with a playful grin and licks a stripe across her clit, then laves and sucks until her legs are shaking and she comes with a keening noise, fingers curled through his hair. She yanks, pulling him up for a kiss, tasting herself in his mouth, and _god_ she's so wet. She scrambles at his jeans, popping the button and pulling them down along with his boxers, until she's got hold of his cock. Guiding him into her, she bucks her hips, forcing him to pick up the pace until he's pounding into her and she's lost in a spiral of desire so tense that when he rubs his finger on her clit she comes again, dragging him with her.

Later, after they've exchanged rueful chuckles and Ariadne catches Arthur trying to clean the couch with the hem of his shirt, Arthur picks up their discarded clothes while Ariadne washes. The bed calls to her, and she's wrapped in the covers again when Arthur lays down beside her, drawing her onto his chest.

Tomorrow, he'll be resplendent in a three-piece Ralph Lauren, his hair slicked back. Tomorrow, she'll be the Architect, working studiously on impossible landscapes. Tonight, she runs her fingers through his unruly curls and falls asleep, dreaming of a limbo where they are together, building castles in the sand.


End file.
